


Hunter's Feast

by Reavv



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder Husbands, Revenge, Road Trips, Supernatural Elements, but not really, less of a romance and more of a fuck you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 22:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: He thinks of those years on the road with his dad, never really sure where they were going to land and how long they were going to stay, and for the first time he feels almost nostalgic about it. The idea of just leaving, of letting himself unmoor himself and drift away from the nebulous and dark pull of Baltimore and it’s killers, sinks into his bones until he can feel it settle.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even go here :\

By the time Will makes it to the road leading to the house, skin pulled tight over his gaunt cheeks and mind racing with exhaustion, the dogs have made their way to the edge of the property and are howling for him. He can feel their excitement, their joy at seeing him, and maybe for the first time since his incarceration he can feel something unspool from his gut. 

Jack’s words echo in his ears, detailing the supposed arrest of the Chesapeake Ripper, but the only thing Will can really understand from it all is that whatever anchored him to this property, to his sense of self and duty, has been worn away from the careful care of Hannibal and his intermediaries. He curls his fingers into the pack’s fur and listens to the sounds of the surrounding woods. He can feel the trespass that’s been made here, the way the house feels used and condemned by the hands of those who were desperate to pin the label of killer on him. 

Suddenly, the thought of sleeping under the same roof where Abigail’s blood was spilled, where the nightmares and hallucinations started, is unbearable. He takes a look at the smiling forms of his dogs, notes a few new faces, and turns back towards the road. 

“C’mon boys,” he says quietly, “there’s no space here for us anymore.” 

—

Will’s father refused to talk about his mother. It was a point of contention when he was younger and more naive, and as the years grew so too did the lies and omissions. That she was dead, that she had been very sick, that there was nothing they could do. But it was one night, when the sound of voices drifted up and woke him from an unsettled sleep that he found some piece of truth in it all. 

In the dimly lit kitchen, his father and a stranger sat, talking. 

Hidden around the corner and ears straining to listen, Will had thought at first that it was one of his father’s fishing buddies, but the tone of the conversation quickly confused matters further. 

“He’s getting older,” the stranger said with an accusative voice, “you’re not going to be able to keep him safe forever.” 

“I can try,” his father had said, his own voice a hard, desperate thing, “she doesn’t have a claim to him anymore. And as long as he doesn’t call her up, there’s nothing she or her family can do.” 

“Would it be such a bad thing? The boy has already shown signs of her inheritance, it might be safer—”

“For who? You know as well as I do what their care can lead to. He should have a chance to live before they take that away from him,” his father had snapped, a booming answer that had had Will hunching further back into the wall. 

The silence had stretched long enough that Will, anxious now for no real good reason, inched his way back up the stairs towards his bed. At the last second, just before his door closed gently against the oppressive feeling from downstairs, he hears one last utterance. 

“He should have the chance to choose, John.”

It becomes a mystery for Will, this stranger that he never saw again, the secrets his father kept close to his chest. The way they moved, from town to town, state to state. The way that no matter how he tried, Will just couldn’t fit in. He was an odd child, and an even odder teenager. And the oddities only grew as he did. 

Even before his empathy bloomed into the monster it is now Will was a strange thing. Animals would flock to him, strays and pets alike, and although his intelligence was never lauded as genius, he knew things that others his age didn’t, in a way that just highlighted the way he couldn’t concentrate in school. And his social skills were atrocious, but he somehow was able to get to the root of a person without a thought. 

There were other things too, things that he never talked about. Like the dreams, where he watched strange shadows stalk strangers and purple skies waver with storms so large they shook his teeth. Like the way sometimes at night he would hear the scuttling of some phantom creature, and in the morning something in the room would be rearranged. He never lost notes, could always find his keys. And he wouldn’t call himself lucky, but there was a certain amount of extraordinary coincidence in his everyday life. 

Which is why the consulting with the FBI hadn’t been that odd, in hindsight. Strange things, and strange people, were attracted to him. 

He opens his eyes to the dark ceiling of the van he purchased, only barely big enough for nine dogs and a slight man, and groans lowly, the sound scratching in his throat. He’s always been a quiet man, but lately he’s turned silence into an artform. The expression on Jack’s face as he’d been released, a small shell of the person he had been before, silent as a grave and unbothered by that, had been a sight to see. 

The van rocks gently with the snoring of the dogs, and the pale light just rising means it’s unlikely he’ll get any more sleep, so Will stretches out and starts the engine. He needs to get some affairs in order: selling the house and finding buyers for the years of junk and scraps he’s accumulated, and find out when the compensation money is coming in. 

He’s already handed in belated resignation letters for both the academy and the force, so really those are the only things keeping him in Baltimore right now. And Hannibal, really, but he’s not thinking about that right now. 

He thinks of those years on the road with his dad, never really sure where they were going to land and how long they were going to stay, and for the first time he feels almost nostalgic about it. The idea of just leaving, of letting himself unmoor himself and drift away from the nebulous and dark pull of Baltimore and it’s killers, sinks into his bones until he can feel it settle. 

He sighs, a long, drawn out exhale of breath, and pulls out of the parking lot. There is, though, one last thing to do.

—

He meets the thing that was his mother for the first time when he’s twenty three. He’s in a coffee shop, sleep deprived from his courses and the subsequent nightmares, and so when he first sees her he doesn’t really register her as real. She’s beautiful, of course, with high cheeks and crystalline eyes, her hair falling in gentle waves down her back. At her side a wolfhound docilely trots, leash adorned with glittering diamonds. 

She takes the seat across from him and smiles, showing teeth. 

“My dear Will,” she says, her voice whispery quiet and yet ringing in his ears. 

“Mom,” he chokes out, even though he’s never seen her before, knows his mother is supposed to be dead, even though she looks too young to be anywhere near his mother’s age. 

“It’s good to see you grown,” his not-mother says, some sort of pride mixed with regret in her voice. “I wish I had been able to see it.” 

Will could say many things about that, could yell and rage about how she could have. Ask where she had been, why his dad had been so closed mouth about it. Instead his eyes flicker down to the glinty eyed dog at her side and he reaches out to say hello. 

The wet nose of the dog tells him he’s not hallucinating, at least. 

“His name is Dysidious,” she says with a smile. “It’s good that he likes you.” 

Will can feel something rise up at that, some nebulous feeling in his gut he’s not sure he could understand even when he’s not half dead from exhaustion and talking to his dead mother. 

“Will,” she says when a few minutes are gone, “I am not allowed to ask, but just know, if ever there comes a time when this life doesn’t agree with you, when you realise the drudgery of it—well, I will be waiting.” 

He strokes a hand across Dysidious’s nose and swallows. 

“I like it here,” he says simply, and that is all that is said between them for years and years. Until he walks out of Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane and finds himself, if not finished with, at least tired of his life. He can’t even drudge up enough will to untangle the knot that is Hannibal and what he wants to do with the knowledge he now has of the man. 

Something happened to him while he was in chains and dark steel boxes. When the people he trusted the most turned on him, when all he ever could do was understand others and still not be understood by them. 

He drives through the countryside, a good few hours from Baltimore, and watches the flashing lights of his phone on his dashboard. Calls from Jack, from Alana, from his lawyer. From Hannibal. He supposes his intent to leave has reached them, now. Winston, in the highly lauded front seat, noses gently at him and pants happily. The windows are open, and it has been a while since he’s felt this: the wind of the open road and the feeling of peeling away his responsibility. Of leaving something behind. 

It’s cathartic. For too long he’s tried to stay true to an idealised version of himself, someone grounded and moral and, most importantly, sane. 

He stops at a roadside dinner to let the dogs out and to get a bite to eat, and it’s there, too hot coffee and slightly dry pancakes in front of him, that he sighs and gives in to the inevitable. 

“I think I’m ready now,” he says softly, and his mother takes his hand in hers and smiles. 

“You’ve been hurt a lot, it’s time to rest,” she agrees, and the wolfhound at her side lays its giant head on his knee and stares up at him in agreement. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything for you,” she continues, and if Will was still a better man he would feel sorry for the people he left behind. For those responsible, or at least implicit in his injuries. For Jack, Alana, even Hannibal. He would try and argue, shield them. 

But he is not that man anymore, and he can’t drudge up the will to stop her. 

“They didn’t know,” he says, and they both know what he’s not saying. She wouldn’t care if he wasn’t her son; there’s no moral reasoning for her anger. Still, it’s a statement and not an argument.

“Ignorance is no excuse for insult,” she says, sounding for one second so much like Hannibal that Will feels the dissonance as a physical sensation. 

Perhaps feeling his unwillingness to dive into the topic, she pulls back with a sigh and rakes one critical eye over his plate of unappetizing food. Her lips purse. 

“Come, we should check on your loyal hounds, and I have a gift that will appeal much better than some sodden bread. You could do with some meat on your bones.” 

Will lets himself be pulled away from the table, unsurprised when no one notes their passing, and walks outside. For one instance, as his eyes adjust to the bright light, he thinks he sees a great shadow hanging over them, wings transparent thin and the colour of deep waters. 

He blinks and it’s gone, but unlike the hallucinations of the Wendigo, he knows this was no trick of the mind. 

The dogs perk up when they seem them, and especially when they see his mother’s hound, and he takes respite in their joyful bounding. 

“Here,” his mother says with a smile, holding out a basket of food that has his mouth watering. Wherever she got it from he tries not to think about, and accepts it with only a little hesitation. 

He takes one shining, golden apple out of the woven strands and stares down at it. He knows, more than most, the cost of eating from another’s realm, but this time at least he is doing it willingly. He bites into the sweet flesh and his mother beams at him, eyes crinkling up in an expression that veers a little too much into victory. 

—

It is perhaps out of character for Hannibal to go out of his way to butt into an investigation: he prefers to have the FBI come to him for whatever consulting they need, as to have a better positon of negotiation. But this isn’t the usual investigation, and he’s already made exceptions when it comes to Will Graham. 

“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Jack says, tone not quite aggressive, but getting to it. The poor unsuspecting intern that had the misfortune to check on the Wolf Trap and its inhabitants flinches. 

“It looks like he didn’t even bother packing anything, the dogs are gone and there’s reports of a cab driving up, but no one’s seen him in days.” 

Both Alana and Jack frown at that, but Hannibal has other matters on his mind. Of all the options he’s pondered Will to take, running had never been one of them. For a man so out of touch with his own feelings, he’s never been the kind to shy away from his stressors. Eye contact and human interaction yes, but never the things that are legitimately hurtful. 

If anything Hannibal had assumed that he would stay in Baltimore to continue the dance they had already started; that there was too much finished business for fleeing to even be a possibility. He can admit to some upset at the thought. 

“And he’s still not responding to our calls,” Alana puts forth, leaning against the desk and holding her arms close to her chest, as if she’s trying to keep herself from gesturing expansively. Hannibal wonders if it’s guilt that’s tearing into her, or if she too is feeling off centre from the idea of Will’s flight. Psychologist do not deal well with patients stepping out of their established parameters. It usually indicates a deterioration in psyche. 

“It would not be out of the norm for him to feel injured by our actions leading up to his incarceration,” Hannibal puts forward, forcing himself to think about it logically. He had thought Will above such petty neurosis. 

“Which is why I let him sulk alone for a few days, but I didn’t expect him to go so far as to leave town,” Jack grits out, turning his ire Hannibal’s way. He can feel his own eyes narrow at the tone, patience for Jack’s particular brand of aggression completely spent in face of other more pertinent matters. 

“We don’t know if he’s left town,” Alana says, somewhat placatingly, uncurling enough to inject some sort of optimism in her voice, “he could have just been distressed at the thought of going back to a house he considers to no longer be safe.” 

“Speaking of, we still haven’t figured out how that ear got into him in the first place, and I’m not convinced of the current theory,” Jack says, completely ignorant to the twitchy movements of the intern creeping out of the room. 

“Which is certainly something that will need to be investigated, as well as the fact that it was able to happen at all,” a voice says from the direction of the doorway, and three heads turn at one to face the intruder. 

A woman in a grey knit suit stands there, brown leather briefcase in hand and a pencil tucked into her militantly pulled back bun. The first thing that really registers though is her piercing blue eyes, sharp and cold. 

“Evelyn Reiller, representing Will Graham. I scheduled a meeting with your assistant,” she says, walking further into the room. 

“I didn’t get any memo about any meetings,” Jack says suspiciously, but Alana is already walking forward to shake her hand. 

“Do you know where he is then? We’re getting worried.” 

Evelyn appraises her critically, face neutral and unmoving. 

“I have been appraised of Mr. Graham’s whereabouts, as is required to facilitate the process of compensation and justice. I am unable to give those whereabouts to the FBI at this time, since it has been deemed unsafe for him,” she says, and Hannibal can see both Alana and Jack’s hackles rise. He himself feels a stir of curiosity at the answer.

“What?” Jack snarls, but the lawyer is unmoved, and Hannibal’s estimation of her rises slightly, even though he can feel his own kernel of frustration at her reticence. 

“The FBI have shown a rather marked disregard for the wellbeing of Mr. Graham. He was a known identity in direct co-operation with investigation that went very public, and unlike the FBI agents actually employed by the bureau he had no protection, not only from the killers who would benefit from his death, but also from the malicious and privacy destroying stalking of journalists like Freddie Lounds. The fact that he was somehow able to ingest the ear of one of the victims, and yet no one had bothered to determine the cause nor the reasoning behind it only speaks of your department’s carelessness.” 

There’s a few beats of silence as Jack’s face gets progressively more thunderous. 

“Will refused any sort of protection detail we might have wanted to put on him, and it’s not like we could forced that on him,” Alana steps in, perhaps sensing the explosion about to happen. 

“Hmm, and I suppose no one wanted to explain to the higher-ups why they needed security for a man already attached to the department in such a grey area of legality. Even discounting the legal ramifications of giving a consulting civilian direct access to crime scenes, as soon as it was obvious that Mr. Graham’s mental health was deteriorating he should have been pulled from any sort of active duty.” The dull sound of the briefcase hitting the desk has Jack flinching, but it is Hannibal that she turns her sharp regard towards. 

“I understand that you were his acting psychologist during the period of his deterioration,” she says, and starts pulling files from the case. 

“Yes,” he responds, eyes narrowed her way. Although it might be amusing to see Jack struggle under the verbal flaying, he’s not stupid enough to think that whatever goal she came her for is over. 

“Then this is your thirty day notice of intent of action, as filed today.” 

—

“I don’t want to go to court,” Will says, hands buried into Winston’s fur. 

His mother, tea cup delicately held between her hands, simply smiles. The highway pitstop they’ve stopped at is deserted, although the traffic of the highway itself is healthy and he can see more than one confused tourist glancing at the road sign. Somehow she’s precured a full china set, and a set of buttery soft pastries. Will isn’t sure he wants to know where she got them from, nor where she herself came from. The past few hours on the road had been solitary. 

“You won’t have to. Evelyn is good, but even she would have a hard time convincing a court to rule against a man with Hannibal’s social standing. The point isn't to get a conviction, it’s simply to, hmm, declare our grievances.” 

“I didn’t realise that’s done with lawsuit papers now,” he says somewhat sardonically. 

“Times change, and it would be remiss of us to cling to tradition that would otherwise restrict us. Besides, I was under the impression that you were at least a little fond of your little pet killer. He’s no use to you dead.” 

“He’s not—I don’t—” he cuts himself off and sighs. There’s no point in trying to argue with her, either because she’s made up her mind or because she’s just incapable of understanding the intricacies of human conflict. Will doesn’t want to be fond of Hannibal. But the man is good at what he does, and he’s spent months burrowing under Will’s skin. It’s debatable whether he’ll ever be able to get him out. 

“And the others?” he asks instead. 

“We have come far from the days of poisoned berries and cursed rings. There are ways to unmake a man that doesn’t involve such...extreme action.” 

Will feels his lips twist down. He’s not sure if what his mother and her subordinates consider less extreme is any better an option. Certainly the complicated plots they’ve hatched are nowhere near anything he would call more logical. 

“Don’t fret so, they don’t deserve your worry. Besides, you have larger things to worry about, at this point,” she says with a smile, flicking her eyes towards the group of slumbering dogs at his side. 

“At this point I’m going to need a bigger van,” he agrees, warily watching the new arrivals kick in their sleep. From the original pack of nine they’ve gained four others, and none of them are what you would call small. 

“It’s a good sign,” she says, voice going a little distant. “Once we would have hunted on horseback with hundreds of hounds. But I suppose we must do with what we have.” 

“I’m not on a hunt,” Will says, jerking to face her. “If anything I’m being hunted.” 

“Nonsense. Can’t you feel it? The trees already whisper when you walk by. You invited us in, dear Will, and you knew as you did that there would be changes.” His mother’s eyes have the ability to pierce through all of Will’s evasions. He hunches a little further into himself and turns away. 

“But I suppose you have time. Time enough to continue your aimless journeying, at least. But you should prepare yourself for the things that will come, regardless of your running and my interference,” she finally says, when it becomes obviously that Will isn’t going to answer. He wouldn’t call her expression any softer, but it is less unsettling. 

“I wouldn’t call it running,” he says slowly, gaze turning towards the sky. The road is buffered by tall trees that create a jagged border in his sight, and for one second he can almost imagine being back at the Wolf Pack and staring up at this same sky. 

“No?” his mother asks wryly. 

“No. I don’t think I could run from Hannibal even if I tried.” He blinks a few times, thoughts slowly churning. “It’s more of a pilgrimage. I’ve spent so many years moving from place to place and never seeing them, and then even more years stuck in a place that only drove me mad. I just want to see something that isn’t rotten with someone else’s touch.”

“You’re looking for yourself,” she says, and Will winces at the clicheness of it. 

“I’m certainly looking for something,” he agrees, and the sky bleeds purple at his words, casting long shadows back down on the treetops. The large form of his mother’s wings brush his side, and he can see the way her talons drive grooves into the china. 

He closes his eyes and lets the vision pass.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't watched a single episode and only casually read the fanfic. somehow instead of writing for the 6 others first chap wips and the 23 other multichap wips i have I wrote this instead.


End file.
